As Keverne beckoned to a midshipman Bolitho called to Lieutenant Meheux who commanded the upper gundeck. He was staring at his own batteries, his round face unusually glum.
‘Never fear, Mr. Meheux, your crews will have work enough soon. But a view of them loading and casting off the lashings and our trick will misfire.’
Meheux touched his hat and then resumed his stance of gloomy disappointment.
Allday hurried across the quarterdeck and held out Bolitho’s sword. As Bolitho raised his hands and he swiftly buckled it around his waist, he said, ‘I’ve told the coxswain of the quarter boat what you want, Captain.’ He grinned. ‘And what he’ll get if he makes a mess of it!’
Bolitho frowned. The Spaniard was going to pass further astern than he had gauged. He would have to act now, or never.
‘Right, Williams, over you go!’
The big seaman clambered on to the larboard gangway, and with his face set in a mask of determination began to lean over the rail.
Keverne muttered harshly, ‘God, he is making the most of his performance.’
‘There ’e goes!’ Partridge hurried back to his place near the wheel as with a violent thrashing of arms Williams pitched over the rail and vanished.
Bolitho ran to the nettings as the cry ‘Man overboard!’ brought the crew of the quarterboat dashing from their various attitudes of unlikely concentration. He breathed out more easily as the seaman’s head appeared bobbing and spluttering close to the side, and snapped, ‘Back the mizzen tops’l, Mr. Keverne! Get that boat away!’ He had feared that Williams’s enthusiasm would make him mistime his fall. The steep tumblehome of the three-decker’s side could easily have broken an arm or skull had he been careless.
He tore his eyes from, the orderly confusion as the boat’s crew swarmed down into the tethered craft below the quarter, while overhead the mizzen topsail banged and flapped against the mast and yard, acting like a brake on some runaway juggernaut, just long enough to peer towards the Spanish ship. She was about two cables from the point where she would cross Euryalus’s wake, and he could see figures scampering along her forecastle, as if to get a better view of the drama.
Bolitho raised his hand. ‘Now! Stand by to go about!’
Already the mizzen yard was squeaking back to its original position, while from their hiding places beneath the gangways the seamen ran to their stations, encouraged by derisive cheers from the unemployed gun crews.
Partridge called, ‘Ready, sir!’
‘Put the helm down!’ Bolitho trained his glass on the Spaniard. There was still no sign of alarm as far as he could see.
‘Helm a’lee, sir!’
Up forward the headsail sheets had already been let go, and as the wheel went over and the great hull began to swing very slowly into the wind, Keverne urged the men at the braces to even greater efforts as they strained back, panting and cursing, their eyes on the yards above them.
Sails boomed and swelled, and as the ship continued to swing Bolitho saw sudden activity on the other vessel’s poop, an officer waving wildly and pointing to his men who were still grouped around the bows.
‘Off tacks and sheets!’
Bolitho shaded his eyes to peer aloft through the tangle of flapping sails and jerking shrouds to where the topmen were already fighting their way to the topgallant yards in readiness for the next part of the attack. For a moment longer he hardly dared to draw breath. The wind was still quite strong, and at worst might bring down the topmasts, or leave the heavy ship thrashing helplessly and all aback.
But the pendant was swinging, the ship was still responding, wheeling across the eye of the wind like a well-disciplined mammoth.
‘Let go and haul!’ Keverne had not raised his eyes from the men on deck. ‘Heave there!’
Slowly but steadily the great yards began to respond to the braces, until with a sound of hill thunder the sails billowed out, full and bulging to the wind, while the deck heeled over to the opposite tack.
Bolitho watched fixedly as the other ship appeared to swim backwards through the mass of rigging around the foremast, until she lay not safely across the larboard quarter, but there, fine on the starboard bow.
There was no sign of the boat or the swimmer, and he found time to hope someone was watching out for them.
‘Pass the word. Mr. Keverne I Lower batteries run out!’
As the port lids lifted and he heard the familiar squeak and groan of gun trucks, he could imagine the cursing men far below his feet as they hauled their massive charges up the tilting decks towards the sunlight.
‘Run up the colours. Mr. Tothill!’
Broughton’s voice made him turn. ‘That was a fierce turn, Bolitho. I thought you would have the sticks out of her.’ He had appeared on deck in his gold-laced coat, wearing the beautiful sword, as if for another of his Inspections.
There was a dull bang and a puff of smoke drifted across the Spaniard’s poop. A gun must have been kept loaded and ready, Bolitho thought, although he did not see where the ball went.
‘Get the t’gallants on her, Mr. Keverne! This one intends to run for it!’
The two ships were on parallel courses, with the Euryalus now some two cables’ length astern.
There was another bang, and someone gasped with alarm as a ball smacked through the fore topsail and splashed down far to windward.
The Spanish ship had a very curved stern, and Bolitho guessed she had some powerful guns mounted there to protect herself from a pursuer.
Broughton snapped, ‘No sense in delaying things.’
Bolitho nodded. Any minute now and a ball might bring down a vital spar. ‘Middle battery, Mr. Keverne. Fire in succession!’
To Partridge he snapped, ‘Bring her up a point to wind’rd!’ wind’rd!’
While the Euryalus swung slightly away from her Intended victim the middle gundeck erupted in a cloud of brown smoke. From forward to aft, cannon after cannon crashed out at regular two-second intervals, each massive twenty-four-pounder hurling itself inboard as the savage orange tongue left its muzzle.
Bolitho watched the leaping waterspouts bursting near and beyond the Spaniard’s quarter, saw splintered woodwork fly from her bulwark as some of the balls smashed home.
From below he could hear the gunners cheering, the squeak of trucks as they raced each other up the canting deck towards the ports.
Keverne was watching him, his eyes dark with tension. ‘They have not struck, sir.’
Bolitho bit his lip. The red and orange flag of Spain still floated above the poop, and even as he watched another gun banged across the water and a ball screamed close overhead like a tortured spirit in hell.
He had expected the Spaniard to strike at the first sight of the flag. There was about a cable between them, and with her topgallant sails drawing well the Euryalus was beginning to pare the range away with each minute.
Something caught his eye, and he saw the quarter boat, black against the glittering water, while its crew, and presumably Williams, stood to cheer the one-sided battle.
The Spaniard’s quarter battery belched orange tongues again; this time three, perhaps four, had fired, and before the smoke had blown clear Bolitho felt the deck jump as a ball slammed into the Eurjalus’s hull like a hammer.
‘Bring her up a point again, Mr. Partridge.’ What was that fool of a Spaniard doing? It was sheer madness to risk any more fighting. If he continued to run before the wind Euryalus would overhaul him. If he stood away, she would rake his stern and dismast him in seconds.
More flashes, and this time a ball ploughed into the starborad gangway, and two seamen rolled screaming and kicking on the deck below, cut down by the flying splinters.
Bolitho said, ‘Lower batteries, Mr. Keverne.’ He held on, watching the defiant flag. Hoping. Then he snapped, ‘Broadside!’
The two lower gundecks had been given plenty of time. It had been almost a leisurely business as gun-captains had checked their crews, and the lieutenants had paced
up and down, ducking beneath the massive deck beams to peer through the open ports, as with tired dignity the Euryalus turned slightly away from her enemy, showing the double line of guns like black teeth. The next instant, as lieutenants blew on their whistles and captains jerked their lanyards, every gun roared out as one, the whole ship quaking as if grinding across a submerged reef.
On the quarterdeck Bolitho watched the smoke billowing down towards the Spaniard, while above it he saw her mizzen tilt forward before plunging down over her poop, the crash audible even above the broadside’s echo, which still reverberated across the sea like thunder.
As the smoke drifted beyond the other ship he saw the gaping holes in her exposed bilge and along her quarter, the trail of rigging and broken spars alongside as she swung drunkenly downwind, exposing her tall stern as if for the final, devastating blow.
But a voice yelled, ‘’E’s struck!’ And the cheer was taken up below where the crews were already sponging out and reloading for the next broadside.
Bolitho said, ‘A brave captain.’
‘But stupid.’ Broughton was peering towards the Spaniard as she continued to drift helplessly with her smoke, so pitiful after her original appearance of vitality and life.
‘We will shorten sail at once, Mr. Keverne, and keep her under our lee.’ He waited until Keverne had passed his orders before adding, ‘Now we might discover what was important to him that needed defending so desperately.’
8
The Prize
VICE-ADMIRAL BROUGHTON SNATCHED a telescope from the midshipman of the watch and strode briskly to Bolitho’s side.
‘What in hell’s name are they doing over there?’ He trained the glass on the other ship which still drifted about half a cable under the Euryalus’s lee.
Bolitho did not answer. He too was studying her as she yawed and plunged, the newly hoisted white ensign flapping jauntily from her mainmast to prove that Lieutenant Meheux and his boarding party had at least achieved something.
He glanced up at the flapping sails and rattling shrouds. It was nearly an hour since the boats had been lowered to take Meheux and his men across to the prize, and in that time there had been a distinct and worrying change in the weather. The sky was clouding over very rapidly, so that the sea had lost its colour and warmth, and the fast-moving crests of the steep waves were dirty grey and menacing. Only the horizon appeared clear, cold and steel bright, as if being lit by power other than the setting sun. Without consulting the masthead pendant he knew the wind had backed still further, and now blew almost from the west, its strength mounting with each frustrating minute.
They were in for a blow, and, hampered by the disabled ship and very little information from Meheux, it could not have been at a worse time.
Broughton snapped, ‘The jolly boat’s returning. And about damn time!’
Watching the small boat under oars as it dipped and curtsied over crest and trough alike was visible evidence of the worsening weather.
The other boats had already been recalled and hoisted inboard, this one being Meheux’s only link with the flagship.
In the sternsheets Bolitho saw the intent figure of Midshipman Ashton, who with a master’s mate and reliable petty officer had been sent with Meheux to take charge of the prize.
While the little boat wallowed sickeningly below the Euryalus’s quarter Ashton cupped his hands and yelled, ‘She’s badly holed, sir! And the rudder lines have been shot away!’
Bolitho craned over the rail, conscious of the men nearby listening to him as he shouted, ‘What is she? What is taking so long?’
Ashton replied, ‘The Navarra, sir. Outward bound from Malaga.’ He almost pitched overboard as an angry wave hurled the boat into a trough. ‘General cargo and and…’ He seemed aware of the admiral’s presence for the first time. ‘And a lot of passengers, sir.’
‘For God’s sake, Bolitho! Ask the young idiot about her captain’s explanation!’
But in reply Ashton called, ‘He was killed in the broadside, sir. And most of his officers.’ He peered up at Bolitho adding miserably, ‘The ship is in a terrible state, sir.’
Bolitho beckoned to Keverne. ‘I think you had better go across. The sea is getting up, and there seems more to our prize than we thought.’
But Broughton halted Keverne in his stride. ‘Belay that order!’ He looked at Bolitho, his eyes cold in the strange light. ‘And if Keverne cannot cope with the problem, what then? More delay, with us getting caught in a squall in the middle of it. You go.’ He flinched as overhead the shrouds and rigging began to hum and whine like badly tuned instruments. ‘Decide what must be done, and be sharp about it. I do not want to lose her, but rather than waste hours or even days struggling back to the squadron with a lame duck for company, I’ll scuttle her, here and now.’ He sensed Bolitho’s unspoken question and added, ‘We can take the crew and passengers aboard if need be.’
Bolitho nodded. ‘Very well, sir.’
He saw Keverne watching him, his face trying hard to hide his disappointment. Denied the chance to hold command of the Auriga, he was now losing yet one more opportunity to better his position. If the Navarra could be saved, but was unfit to accompany the flagship, the prize officer who sailed her back to Gibraltar might well find himself appointed as captain.
Bolitho had obtained his own first real chance of command by the same method, and could feel for Keverne’s distress and possible resentment.
He thrust it from his mind as he signalled to the jolly boat. If the wind mounted any further there might be no prize at all within the hour.
Allday had appeared at his side and helped him into his coat as he murmured, ‘You’ll be wanting me of course, Captain.’
Bolitho glanced at him. Saw the sudden anxiety, like the time he had gone to the bomb vessel without him.
He smiled. ‘As you say, Allday. Of course.’
Getting into the boat was as dangerous as it was uncomfortable. One moment it was driving hard against the ship’s side, the next plummeting into a trough, the oarsmen fighting and cursing to stop its timbers from being stove in.
Bolitho jumped outwards and down, knowing that if he misjudged it he was likely to be sucked bodily beneath his ship’s great bilge, or be ground into the side by the careering jolly boat.
Breathlessly he crouched in the sternsheets, blinded by spray, and knocked almost senseless by his jump, which had been more like a fall.
Allday grinned into the flying spray as the oarsmen turned the boat away from the ship and started to fight back downwind.
‘Nasty blow, Captain!’
Bolitho said, ‘These squalls can go in minutes. Or they can drive a ship to despair.’ It was amazing how Allday had regained his usual good spirits now he was with him again, he thought.
When he peered astern he saw the Euryalus plunging heavily, her close-reefed topsails just giving steerage way as she edged carefully clear of the other vessel. In the steel-grey light she looked huge and formidable, and he was thankful to see Keverne had already ordered the lower gunports to be closed. The ship was rolling badly, and open ports would invite unnecessary work for the pumps, as well as adding to the discomfort of the men who had to live there.
Even in the poor light it was easy to see the Spanish ship’s savage scars. The poop and lower hull beneath it had been smashed into gaping holes in several places, the blackened timbers protruding like broken teeth as testimony of that one, reduced broadside.
Midshipman Ashton shouted, ‘Mr. Meheux has rigged some swivel guns, sir. But the crew appear too dazed to try and retake the ship.’
Allday growled, ‘There’ll be nothing to retake in a moment!’
After three attempts the boat managed to get under the Navarra’s lee and eventually hooked on to her main chains. Bolitho took his dignity in his hands and jumped wildly for the entry port ladder, feeling his hat whisked from his head and his body soaked to the waist as a lazy breaker swirled up and along the hull as if to drag him aw
ay.
Hands reached down to haul him unceremoniously to the deck where Meheux and the master’s mate were waiting to meet him, their faces showing their surprise at his sudden and undignified arrival.
Allday clambered after him, and Bolitho saw that somehow he had managed to retrieve his hat from the sea, although it was unlikely it would ever be the same again.
He took it from the coxswain’s hands, examining it critically as he gave his breathing time to return to normal, his eyes giving the swaying deck a brief glance as the extent of the damage became more apparent.
The severed mizzen mast, the tangle of fallen rigging and charred canvas, while on the deck nearby lay several gaping corpses, their blood paling in the blown spray and seeping away like life itself.
He said, ‘Well, Mr. Meheux, I would be obliged if you will give me your observations and conclusions.’ He turned as a block fell from somewhere overhead and crashed amongst a pile of shattered planks, which had once been some of the ship’s boats. ‘But be brief.’
The Euryalu’s second lieutenant glanced around the disordered deck and said, ‘She is badly holed, sir. There are several rents close to the waterline also. If this gets any worse she will take in more than the pumps can manage.’ He paused as if to allow Bolitho to hear the measured clank of pumps. ‘The real problem is the great mass of people below, sir. Quite apart from her ship’s company, this ship is carrying about one hundred passengers. Women, even children, are jammed down there. If they get out of hand there will be too great a panic to control.’ He gestured to the shattered boat tier, ‘And there’s no hope for them there either, sir.’
Bolitho rubbed his chin. All those passengers. So why did her captain risk their lives by trying to fight a three-decker? It did not make sense. Nor did it match a Spaniard’s normal attitude when it came to self-preservation.
‘You have thirty seamen in your party, Mr. Meheux.’ He tried not to think of those terrified people battened down below. ‘Send some to put extra members of the Navarra’s crew on the pumps. By working in relays we can keep it in check. Then the rudder. Have you done anything there?’
The Flag Captain Page 15